The Redemption of Claude Frollo
by Mahasamatman
Summary: Judge Claude Frollo's world revolves around two constants: the rigor of the law and the wrath of God against sinners. He cares for his ward, Quasimodo, solely out of duty to the Church for a crime he committed long ago. But when a priest from a distant land preaching a very different Gospel comes to town, Frollo begins to learn the strange new ways of gentleness and even mercy.
1. Prologue-A Stranger's Journey

August 16th, 1453

Ioannes Loukas stroked his black beard flecked with grey, as the weary wagon lumbered into Paris. As he saw the great city, its streets and alleys, shops and taverns, its fortresses and university, his heart lifted. Here, at last was society, an end to his wandering across the world.

What exactly drew him to Paris, he did not know. All he knew was that the further he went from Constantinople, the great and holy city, the better. His heart sank again as he recalled the fire and destruction, his homeland being ravaged by barbarians from the East. The Turks bore an air of culture, but their savagery betrayed their true nature as far as he was concerned. But even when Constantinople stood in all its shining glory, darkness haunted the memory of its streets. But no, not now. There would be time to dwell on the past later. Now the present loomed large in Ioannes' vision, as the wagon pulled past the banks of the river Seine.

As the sun began to set over the river, Ioannes made arrangements for the horses and the carriage. He found an inn and paid for a modest room, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention by staying in the best quarters. Offering a brief prayer of thanks for safe travels to Jesus and the Theotokos Mary the Ever-Virgin, Ioannes lay down on his cot, rolled onto one side and waited for sleep.

'A stranger in a strange land'. Kyrie eleison.


	2. The Courtyard

[TW: g*psy slur (period piece with character who is at this point a shitty person. I promise that everyone will learn the right names for people in time).]

March 23rd, 1460

Judge Claude Frollo paced the balcony on the heights of the great cathedral, Notre-Dame De Paris. The bustle of the city murmured below him. Periodically, he would peer over the balcony, as if he could find his missing ward. Young Quasimodo was late.

Where is that infuriating boy? It can't possibly take him that long to get dressed.

No doubt Quasimodo was getting into trouble, or associating with the filthy peasant-folk. It had happened once before. The boy was only nine years old, and already he had seen far too much of the fallen world outside the cathedral. Shivers of revulsion ran down Frollo's spine at the thought of it.

One of Frollo's aides came running up the cathedral steps, his boots clattering on the ancient stones.

"Have you no respect for the tranquility of the church, Monsieur Laurent?"

The young aide looked down at the floor.

"Forgive me, Lord Frollo. But we found your ward, sir."

"Quasimodo? Where is he?" Frollo demanded.

"He's in the courtyard."

Frollo picked up his ebony staff.

"Then lead the way,"

As Frollo and Laurent arrived in the courtyard, they were greeted with a strange sight. Quasimodo sat on the ground. In a circle around him were several shabbily dressed peasants.

Gypsies, no doubt. Frollo sneered in disgust.

On a nearby stone bench sat a middle-aged man with a thick beard in a black cassock. A parish priest? But he couldn't be. Frollo knew all the priests of Notre-Dame. None were as old as this man, and none had skin of such an olive tone. Perhaps a visiting priest, then. Frollo would have to teach him a few things about the duties of the church, to keep sinners out unless they were repentant.

Laurent began to step into the courtyard. Frollo pulled him out of view.

"Not yet. I want to see how much damage has been done."

One of the gypsies, a bard of some sort, finished a bawdy song on the lute. Another one waved her hands and produced three silver medallions, as if out of thin air. Quasimodo clapped his hands in wonder and delight.

"Witchcraft," Frollo breathed.

The gypsy woman placed the coins in Quasimodo's hands, and closed his thick fingers around them.

"For you, little boy," she said. Quasimodo's hand trembled.

"No. Thanks, but I can't. Master wouldn't like it, taking someone else's silver…"

"Keep them. They are a gift, freely given," the old priest said. "It is good to enjoy beautiful things, is it not?"

Slowly, Quasimodo nodded and put the medallions into his pouch.

"Beautiful things are…are lovely, sir,"

"Please, call me Jean-Luc," the foreigner said. "I have seen many beautiful things. The way the sunlight glints on the sea. A holy mountain, many miles from here, where the olive trees reach their branches up into the morning mists. The way lovers gaze into each other's eyes. The moonlight as it spills across the streets of this very city. The laughter and joy of children at play,"

Quasimodo smiled. The old foreigner, Jean-Luc, smiled back at him and at all those gathered.

"I've had enough," Frollo said. "Stay here, Laurent."

Frollo stormed into the courtyard.

"What is the meaning of all this?" he roared.

The bard got to his feet and cleared his throat.

"Your Honor, we seek sanctuary here for the next three days. Our family has been staying in Paris, and we are soon due to move on. But some of the sons of the nobles have roused the local gentry against us."

"It is broad daylight. You are not in any immediate danger. I suggest you move along before I lose my temper and treat you as you deserve," Frollo said through gritted teeth.

"Please, we fear for our lives!" one of the gypsies pleaded.

The old priest rose to his feet.

"There was a veritable mob on the outskirts of the cathedral. Torches, knives, pitchforks, the like. They moved on only an hour ago," the priest lowered his voice, then added, "We were telling stories to comfort the boy. No child should have to see such cruelty."

"I'll not have you making decisions on account of my ward…Monsieur…Jean-Luc, was it?"

"Pere Jean-Luc, if you please," Jean-Luc said in a level tone.

"I am Claude Frollo, Minister of Justice. And you, Pere Jean-Luc, should limit yourself to the duties of the church, and your office. I will deal with these rabble. Get out!" Frollo barked to the gypsies. Jean-Luc fixed Frollo with a steady gaze through his soft green eyes. It infuriated him more and more with each passing second. The gypsies did not move.

"Very well. It seems I must teach you to respect your city officials. You will not enjoy the lesson." He took two long strides until he was nearly on top of the gypsies, then raised his staff to aim a blow at the bard's shoulder. In a moment, Jean-Luc had stepped from the right-hand side to stand directly between Frollo and his intended example. Frollo glared at Jean-Luc.

"Out of my way."

Jean-Luc remained immoveable.

"A priest should mind his own affairs. The church does not smile upon those who obstruct justice."

"The church does not smile upon those who would harm God's children," said Jean-Luc. "So unless you are prepared to strike a priest, and an aging man at that, I suggest you find sanctuary for these good people."

Frollo sighed. He lowered his staff.

"Go to Pere Dominique. He will see to your lodgings. Don't let me catch you in my sight again," said Frollo.

The travellers shuffled off towards the interior of the church. The bard gave a grateful nod to Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc extended his hand in blessing. Quasimodo began to shuffle off as well.

"Quasimodo," Frollo called.

Jean-Luc looked at Frollo in shock. Good. Let the foreigner be uncomfortable. He would learn his place.

"Yes, master," the boy said, holding back tears. Jean-Luc placed a firm hand on Quasimodo's shoulder, as if to comfort him. Frollo glared at the priest. Jean-Luc removed his hand. He knelt down to meet Quasimodo's eyes.

"Farewell, little one," said the priest. Then he rose and exited the courtyard.


	3. A Reading Lesson

April 16th, 1465

Quasimodo surveyed the Paris skyline from the top of the bell tower. The morning sun shimmered as it glinted off the River Seine. The water was transformed into liquid light. Faintly, Quasimodo heard the everyday hustle and bustle of the marketplace. The sky was clear, but storm clouds could be faintly discerned in the distance.

He heard a cough. Turning around, Quasimodo saw his guardian, Frollo, ascend the last three stairs into the bell tower.

"Good morning Quasimodo," Frollo said.

With a quiet sigh, Quasimodo turned away from the panorama before him.

"...Good morning, master,"

"Shouldn't you be reviewing your letters? I hope you value the education you receive from me. The schoolmasters in Paris would punish a lazy boy like yourself far more severely than I."

Quasimodo bowed slightly. He resented his master's condescending tone. Quasimodo was fourteen years old. Not a man yet by any means, but old enough that he felt he deserved to be treated as an equal.

"I reviewed them last night, master," he lied. He turned back to the view from the balcony

"Good, then you'll have no problem reciting them to me," Frollo said, calling his bluff.

Quasimodo turned around, grimaced. He concentrated, then began.

"A...abomination. B...blasphemy. C…" he trailed off, forgetting. The words were no help. Frollo had only taught him the basic details of what they meant. He had the vague sense that if Frollo allowed him to go to Mass, or speak with the priests and friars who roamed about the cathedral, perhaps these things would become clear. But Frollo insisted that Quasimodo's place was the tower, and that the priests were not to be bothered by his simple questions. They weren't words that anyone used in the marketplace, either. On the few occasions when Quasimodo had been able to sneak out of the church without Frollo discovering, he listened to the language of the street and its everyday people. Words were shorter, brighter, more colorful.

"C…?" Frollo prompted, lowering his eyebrows.

"Contrition!" Quasimodo remembered. He racked his brain for the next letter.

"Can't you remember faster?" Frollo demanded. "Perhaps a few blows of the switch would jog your memory!"

Quasimodo flinched as Frollo picked up a reed and began to raise it above Quasimodo's shoulder. Quasimodo straightened, pretended to think. This wasn't fair. Frollo punished him for mistakes. Sometimes, he had even been punished for giving the right answer if he wasn't fast enough. And the exercise was ultimately useless. Frollo had never taught him to use what he learned. It was a waste of time. Quasimodo had had enough.

"God damn the letters. Damn it all. Damnation," Quasimodo said, giving the correct answer at the end just to spite his teacher.

Frollo's face twisted into an expression of rage.

"Ungrateful boy. Not only do you spurn my hard work on your behalf, but you blaspheme against the Lord and His Judgment! I will hear no more from you today. Go and confess your sin to the priests, and then return here and await my instructions and your discipline."

Quasimodo prepared to retort, but thought better of it when he saw Frollo raise the reed again. He bowed deeply, and ran down the stairs before Frollo could see his tears.


	4. Confession

Quasimodo shuffled through the shadows of the cathedral. He ignored the stares and gasps of the few parishioners who crossed his path. What did he care? None of it really mattered. He passed through the nave of the church and went to find Fr. Jean-Luc.

The old priest came out of the confessional with an elderly woman, who whispered a few words to him and hobbled away towards the narthex. He smiled when he saw Quasimodo, but his expression quickly changed when he perceived the boy's mood.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," Quasimodo began with a trembling sigh.

Jean-Luc nodded slowly.

"Come in, and tell me what troubles you," he said.

The confessional closed, Quasimodo began to tell Jean-Luc everything that had happened that morning, beginning with the reading lesson and ending with the blasphemy.

Jean-Luc raised an eyebrow, made as if to speak, but then said nothing. The priest cleared his throat, and intoned the formula of absolution. Then he said,

"Ten Ave Marias as penance. But it seems something else is on your mind…"

Quasimodo hesitated.

"Master Frollo, he just...he doesn't...it's nothing," Quasimodo said, looking away.

"He doesn't understand," Jean-Luc offered.

"Exactly! No, worse. He's a cruel, heartless man. He says I should be grateful to him, but..."

"You're not alone. I've seen the way he treats the poor of this city, the way he treats you. I pray that God would speak to him, but in the meantime, he seems deaf to the cry of God or His children."

"I just...will things ever change? Master Frollo never listens, nothing I do is ever good enough for him."

Jean-Luc looked up to the heavens, as if seeking guidance. He was still for a long moment. Then he met Quasimodo's gaze and placed a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder.

"The only Master whose judgment matters in the end is Christ the true Master, and you are more than enough for Him. Things will change. It may not be easy, but they will change."

Quasimodo embraced Jean-Luc. Tears streamed down his face, joy and sorrow all at once. After the two had sat in stillness for awhile, Jean-Luc rose and beckoned to Quasimodo, saying,

"Come."

"Where are we going?" Quasimodo asked.

"To speak with the Archdeacon."


	5. The Archdeacon

Quasimodo stood outside the door of the Archdeacon's chamber. Jean-Luc had meant to bring him into the discussion, but when the Archdeacon heard what it was about, he insisted that the two of them speak in private. Jean-Luc had given an apologetic look to Quasimodo and said,

"Wait here. I won't be long."

Quasimodo looked out the window. Judging by the shifting height of the sun, it had been almost an hour. He sighed. He had tried to listen in, but the thick door muffled any sound, allowing only a low indistinct murmur to escape. He could tell when Jean-Luc was speaking. The old priest's soft voice was harder to hear, but more lilting than that of the Archdeacon. But he couldn't make out the words.

At last, he heard the rustling of robes and the two men re-emerged. The Archdeacon cleared his throat.

"Quasimodo. Pere Jean-Luc and I have been talking, and it seems to me that you are not making satisfactory progress in your studies under Frollo's tutelage alone. It seems an...adjustment is needed. Therefore, if you are amenable, I would like to have you start lessons with Pere Jean-Luc,"

Quasimodo's eyes widened a bit. Jean-Luc smiled and winked.

"I would love to...mend...er...to amend...that is to say, I am amenable, holy father." said Quasimodo, tripping over his words. "Thank you, a thousand times thank you!"

"Then it's settled. As your primary guardian, Frollo will still be your tutor. However, you will begin lessons with Pere Jean-Luc twice a week, beginning after the Lord's Day. He will report to me on your progress, but I will leave the curriculum for the three of you to determine, subject to my oversight. Pere Jean-Luc is an excellent scholar and priest. I am sure you will advance greatly under his guidance."

The Archdeacon gave them his blessing, then shuffled back into his office. Jean-Luc put a hand on Quasimodo's shoulder.

"I look forward to being your teacher. We will meet in the courtyard on Tuesday at high noon. Until then, I have two small tasks for you. First, pay attention during Mass, and tell me what you see. Tell me what catches your are many lessons to be learned from the life of the Church, and not just from Pere Dominique's homilies. Second, be sure you are well rested before our lesson. You always look tired. Does Frollo keep you up late?"

Quasimodo shook his head, shrugged.

"Sometimes, if he has a particularly long lesson. But sometimes I like to stay up and watch the stars from my tower. I have a good view, and they're just so...beautiful, almost like they're alive."

"It is well. All the same, I want your mind sharp for our studies, so be sure to get a full night of sleep. I will see you in a few days' time. Until then, God be with you."

Quasimodo nodded. He wasn't really comfortable with God, he realized. God was always watching, always ready to cast judgment. God seemed too much like the man Quasimodo was slowly growing to resent more and more.

But Jean-Luc seemed to speak of God almost as an old friend. Quasimodo wasn't sure what to make of that, but the priest had been kind to him, and kindness had been a rare thing in his life so far.

"And with your spirit," Quasimodo managed, but Jean-Luc had already passed out of earshot, down the hall.


End file.
